


Signed, Sealed, Delivered

by CatalpaWaltz



Series: Fortress!Verse [2]
Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Fortress!verse, Group Sex, M/M, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 19:09:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7281106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatalpaWaltz/pseuds/CatalpaWaltz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has to swallow a rough, fractured sound at that sparse praise, remembering that he’s been ordered to keep quiet, as well as not to move. It’s becoming an increasingly impossible task.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Signed, Sealed, Delivered

**Author's Note:**

> As with the rest of Fortress!verse, this is pretty Ben-centric. If you're here from the Hamilton musical fandom, this might not be the fic for you.

Ben’s got his eyes shut tight, his breathing ragged,  his blood practically thrumming through his veins. He can feel a bead of sweat trickle down from his hairline to the hollow of his throat. He’s trying to stay very, very still.

“Excellent,” says a voice from above him. “Look at you, you’re doing so well. Is he not doing well, Your Excellency?”

Another voice, somewhat further away, responds.

“He is.”

He has to swallow a rough, fractured sound at that sparse praise, remembering that he’s been ordered to keep quiet, as well as not to move. It’s becoming an increasingly impossible task.

“Again,” says Hamilton, his mouth just inches from Ben’s ear, and that split-second of anticipation is enough to send shockwaves through him right before he feels the searing, scintillating points of contact where the wax from the candle in Lafayette’s hand drips onto him; this time, just over his left ribs, the trail of molten beeswax following the curve of his torso.

He cannot fully suppress a shudder, and he marvels at the sensation of the now-cooled lines of wax on his chest and his thighs and his shoulders cracking and falling away. This earns him a swat to his flank: just a warning, and not a very dire one at that, but it’s enough to make him still again.

He opens his eyes. He can see Lafayette kneeling above him, looking wicked, while he waits for more wax to pool in the guttering candle he holds. Hamilton lounges close to where Ben is sprawled on his back, right in the center of the carpet of the General’s temporary study, his breath wafting strands of Ben’s untied hair against his cheek, tickling him. Washington is somewhere beyond his line of sight, but Ben knows he is there, watching.

“Hamilton,” says the General, his voice hardly more than a whisper. “Come here. I have had a thought.”

“Of course, Your Excellency.” He rises, and Ben can hear the indistinct murmur of Washington whispering something to his aide, who “hmms” appreciatively at his commander’s cleverness before returning to his place beside Ben. He runs a soothing hand over Ben’s forehead, and Ben can see him pass something off to Lafayette, that looks like a stick of sealing wax.

“You’ve been so good, Major,” says Hamilton, as he cards his fingers through Ben’s hair. “Be good a little longer. Will you? You can answer.”

“I will,” Ben rasps. “I promise.”

Hamilton mutters something in French to his fellow aide, who gently but firmly settles his forearm across Ben’s legs, holding them to the floor.

“We can’t have you kicking the Marquis in his lovely face, can we,” purrs Hamilton, and Ben draws in a long, shuddering breath. The _waiting_ is absolutely unbearable.

But then, all at once, he understands the reason for such precautions. A spot of fire blooms on the crest of his right hip, as Lafayette presses the molten end of the sealing wax into the flesh there. He knows they will have tested it, knows the skin won’t blister, but it feels for a moment as though he has actually been set alight. Hamilton shushes him, scratches soothing circles into his scalp, and Ben cannot hold back a whimper. He can only hope that he will not be punished for it.

Then, behind him, he hears the unmistakeable sound of Washington rising from his chair, and soon the man’s shadow is falling over his face. He looks up, meets Washington’s eyes. He knows he must look a mess: his face feels hot and blotchy, there are tears welling in the corners of his eyes, but Washington’s expression is all warmth. He kneels beside Lafayette, and Ben sees the flash of an object in his hand: his personal seal. Then comes the cold press of metal into the pool of red wax on his hip, pushing hard enough that Ben hopes he might be permitted to carry a bruise in the shape of Washington’s monograph. Then a kiss, feather-light, over the mark.

“There,” says Washington thickly, swiping his thumb over Ben’s hip, tracing the bruises and pools of hardened wax already left there.

Hamilton chuckles.

“Shall we put him with the rest of the outgoing post, Your Excellency?”


End file.
